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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137648">The Midnight Ride</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne'>AlleiraDayne</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Case Fic, Comedy, F/M, Fluff, Haunting, Horror, Hunt Fic, PTSD, Parody, Spirits, are you afraid of the dark, prompt, vengeful spirit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:40:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,037</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137648</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Long is our list of ghost stories laid to rest. But when the dark rider returns thirty years after his exorcism at the hands of the Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and I are faced with the possibility that we’ve been wrong about one thing.</p><p>Some urban legends never die.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sam Winchester/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Are You Afraid of the Dark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A lovely anonymous person on Tumblr prompted me with the following:</p><p>"Dean and Sam are driving and the reader freaks out at Dean’s fast driving due to PTSD with car accidents."</p><p>Since it's Spoopy Halloween Season, this is what my brain came up with.</p><p>Update: I managed to conflate series and works somehow. This is a single work with 4 chapters and is now properly reflecting that with title and chapter title.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>
    
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of all the things we had hunted together over the years, vengeful spirits had a special place in my heart. Whenever we got wind of a poltergeist or a lingering entity, I damn near begged Sam and Dean to take the case. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time they didn’t humor me. Hell, most of the time, they were equally eager. After all, that was the gig. Save people. Hunt things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The family business.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, Y/N."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean's flat tone and even flatter stare brooked no argument. And yet, I persisted. "C'mon, man. This has gotta be one of the most well-known hauntings in the country. And now it's serious!" I brandished the stack of articles at him. "Look!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam rounded the entry into the kitchen and asked, "Look at what?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"These deaths," I said. He took the stack of articles from me. "Bodies found with their heads crushed. By </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannonballs</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Whip lashes all over, too. He’s never manifested quite like this before."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam flipped through the papers, his scowl etching deeper into his forehead with each page. He hardly glanced at the last one, then tossed the stack onto the table in front of Dean. "No."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?!" Incredulous, I gaped at both of them but neither spoke. "Are you freakin' kidding me right now? This is the hunt of a lifetime! We might not get another chance to take out one of the most renowned hauntings in America!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean regarded the top article on the stack, then flipped to the second. "It's not real, Y/N."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not the most well-known haunting in the country,” Sam clarified. “It’s the most well-known urban legend. Kinda like Sasquatch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I gawked at Sam, then turned to Dean. When he shrugged, I said, “Y’all are trying to tell me that you hunted the Woman in White,” I started as I marked my index finger, “a wendigo,” I continued on the second finger, “Bloody fucking Mary,” I finished on my third finger, “and who the Hell knows how many other urban legends over the last fifteen years, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> one is </span>
  <em>
    <span>fake</span>
  </em>
  <span>?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean remained silent as he stared at the third article in the stack. I turned to Sam and he shrugged. “I know it’s a bummer, but think about it. We’re two weeks shy of Halloween. This sort of story always comes up this time of year from—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sammy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pit of my stomach plummeted. I had never heard Dean’s voice quiver with such intense fear. I turned to find his face whiter than the driven snow. Sam edged passed me for the table and looked at the article Dean held up to him. As his eyes scanned the page, the color drained from his face as if he had seen the most terrifying thing in his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. Like he had just seen a ghost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Missed that one, huh?” Dean asked, voice barely above a whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Sam choked. “We have to go, don’t we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean raised his chin, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Sam. I know you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” he mumbled as he folded his arms across his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quick glance between them revealed nothing so I asked, “It’s clearly not fine, Sam. You’ve been bummed for </span>
  <em>
    <span>months</span>
  </em>
  <span>. There hasn’t been a single case since Chuck’s assholery that you’ve been remotely interested in. I thought a quick and easy win would help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s just it, Y/N,” he started. “It won’t be a quick and easy win.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned on his heel and heavy footfalls carried him from the kitchen before Dean or I could respond. Defeated, Dean’s head sank between his shoulders, forehead cupped in both hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does he mean?” I asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean raised his head but said nothing. The longer he remained silent, the worse my fears grew. Something had deeply troubled both of them, enough that they had completely changed their minds about the case. But what had they seen?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I neared the table and slipped the article from the stack. The black and white image of two young boys and their father stared up at me. Beneath the photograph, a caption described the family:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Richard Philips (36) of Lawrence, Kansas and his sons John (11) and Thomas (7) pause in front of the  museum for a photograph while on a fall vacation road-tripping across America.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A million thoughts and none tumbled through my head all at once. My eyes snapped to the header of the article where I found the date, and gooseflesh raced along my arms as I read aloud. "October 21st, 1990." In a rush, I slapped the article onto the table and flipped through the rest of the stack. "That's not possible. I only printed articles over the last week. How the Hell…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean simply stared straight ahead, glassy gaze unseeing. A moment of uncomfortable silence lingered until he spoke. "Look a little closer at that picture."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I dared not look away from him, but Dean's grave instruction left me no choice. I snatched the paper up from the table and brought it right beneath my nose. The father stood tall, broad shoulders pulled back and his hands on the backs of his two boys. John, the older boy, looked much like his father, square jaw, oval eyes, and a brilliant smile. Happy as clams, those two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The younger son, however, appeared quite uncomfortable. He clung to his father's leather coat, and a forced smile curled his lips, but never touched his eyes. Fear hid there behind a mop of hair and a clenched jaw. What had scared that little boy so that he clung to his father for safety?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An unbidden gasp rent from my lips. Shock spasmed through my fingers, and the paper fluttered to the table. "What did I just see?! How does that article exist and how do I have it now?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean plucked the image from the table. His eyes narrowed as he spun the paper about, then flicked it to me as he set it back down. "Maybe the question isn't how, but why."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, now you sound like Sam," I stated. "Can you please tell me what's going on?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stood then and headed for the door. "Not enough time. We need to get on the road right now. It's a long drive to New York and we're on the clock."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Dean through the door, I stood alone in the kitchen and… stalled. Hesitated. Something about the photograph drew me in once more. I needed to believe my own eyes, but what I’d seen a moment earlier flew in the face of reality. Then again, my reality had shattered ten years ago. I’d allowed the Winchesters to tear down everything I had once believed and they had built it back up with the truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Truth</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I picked up the photo once more. Despite my fears, my gaze slid to the left edge of the frame where a large, black horse stood so far away. Impossible. It should have been a small spec at that distance. Unless it was the size of a small house. But that was only the half of it. Though the clarity of the horse had drawn me in at first, it paled in comparison to its rider. A tall, imposing man sat astride the beast, clad all in black.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I knew it was going to happen, but I was still entirely unprepared. I startled again as the horse reared just as it had a moment earlier, and a large cannonball manifested in the rider's hand raised high over his head. Except he had no head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that wasn't the entire story, either. Sam and Dean had recognized something else about the photograph. And they had kept it between them. No matter how long I stared at it, the image offered up nothing else, not even a hint. I snatched up the stack of articles, whipping it off the table and stuffing it into the crook of my arm as I stomped from the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Winchesters had traded a few rounds with The Headless Horseman, of that I had no doubt. Not after what I had just witnessed. If they wanted to keep their secrets, fine. But I would bet my life on the fact that they thought they had wasted the son of a bitch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turns out some urban legends </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>die.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Tales From the Crypt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In Sleepy Hollow, New York, Sam, Dean, and the reader begin their investigation.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“We were able to identify most of the bodies, but a few are still John or Jane Does.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The coroner led us around a table where a cadaver lay covered by a thick white sheet. She continued talking as she drew the sheet to the corpse’s waist, but I heard little and less of what she said. I barely stifled a yawn before sipping from my thermos. Coffee scalded my tongue but I’d rather deal with that than pass out on my own two feet at four o'clock in the afternoon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam and Dean had insisted on driving through the night. Every time I had managed to fall asleep in the Impala, I had woken up sore and aching ten minutes later. So instead of risking another chiropractor bill, I had researched what I could of The Headless Horseman. Unfortunately, I had learned next to nothing besides boring variations on the same bullshit story from the urban legend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another yawn scattered my thoughts, and my vision finally focused on the exposed body before me. Headless as expected, no surprise there. Lacerations crisscrossed all over the torso and what remained of the neck, also expected. But something about those lacerations piqued my interest and so I leaned closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thin black crusting outlined every cut, no matter how deep or superficial. The coroner and Dean were chatting amicably when I prodded Sam in the rib. He regarded me with a raised brow as I pointed at the lashes and said, “Look.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam bowed in beside me, and the scent of his freshly washed hair filled my nose. So close, I eased into his warmth and leaned closer. “That,” I muttered as I pointed. “Aren’t those burns?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He eyed me with a suspicious sideways glance before his smile spread across his lips, and he nodded. “Good catch, Y/N,” he started. “But the lashes alone are confusing. Since when does the Headles—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll get back to you if we learn anything else,” Dean said loud enough to drown out Sam. “Thank you for your time, miss.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam and I followed Dean’s lead and thanked the coroner for her time as well. She thanked us in return—flashing a warmer than casual smile at Dean, who blushed—and covered the cadaver as we headed for the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the hallway, Dean breathed a sigh of relief. “Christ, she’s too smart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, did she reject you before you even asked?” Sam jested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean tossed a tentative glance my way. “Nah, I got her number. But after </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she started asking about the decapitations and the lashes looking strange…” He trailed off as we stepped out into the cool fall breeze and pale October sun. “I don’t think she knows more, but I’ll have to be on my toes later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And by later you mean after we finish this hunt, right?” I asked across Sam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the car, Dean popped the driver’s door open, then said, “She asked me out tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they slid into the front seat, I eased into the back. “And you said what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shot me a dark glare in the rearview mirror. “I asked her for a rain check until this weekend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wow. “Okay, I’m impressed,” I replied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m… not surprised,” Sam replied. “Considering what’s going on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Impala roared to life as Dean twisted the key in the ignition. When he pulled away from the curb, I leaned over the backrest and asked, “What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam shot a nervous look at Dean before he took a deep breath. “Can we solve the case first?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he turned to look at me, I glared back. Earnest. Honest, even. But I wasn’t about to let my feelings for him cloud my judgment. “No. I need to know what we’re up against and...” I paused, my attention snared by the houses we passed. Every yard displayed a scene from the urban legend that had put Sleepy Hollow on the map. Various iterations on The Headless Horseman stood in every yard, myriad pumpkins and overly detailed horses impressively crafted. But each and every rider had a jack-o-lantern for a head or held one aloft. Not a single display had armed him with a whip or a cannonball. “Seriously, those lashes were</span>
  <em>
    <span> burned</span>
  </em>
  <span> into that victim. Since when does he wield a whip? And what kind of whip can do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One made from the spinal bones of human corpses,” Dean strained under his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I blinked several times before I responded. “Excuse me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, here’s the deal,” Dean started. The Impala followed his command as it lumbered over the driveway into a diner’s parking lot. “We’re gonna eat dinner here. But we can’t talk about work. Once we’re in there, we’re FBI agents, and on-going investigations are off-limits. Got it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Better than nothing. “Once we get back to the motel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean pulled into a spot and slid the shifter into park. “We’ll tell you everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything. So foreboding. As if all of their skeletons had been buried in an urban legend. Both of them turned over the backrest when I remained quiet too long. Weighed and measured, their expectant glares demanded an answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So I agreed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Deal.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>“I haven’t had a pot roast sandwich like that in ages.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean covered his mouth with his fist as he held back a deep belch. “The pecan pie was damn near the best I’ve ever had.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that hot cider!” I added. “That was definitely homemade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, you’re damn right it was homemade. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> there was homemade,” Dean replied. “Well, except for maybe Sam’s salad.” He turned to Sam and his face fell. “Sammy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I followed Dean’s concerned glare and found Sam near the motel room door, eyes glazed over and staring into the middle distance. I knew that look. I’d felt it before, and I’d seen it on both of them too many times over the years. The severity of the situation sank in then, and reality returned in a rush. Forgotten was the pot roast, the pecan pie, and the hot cider. Abandoned was the lighthearted banter, and our carefree dinner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death stalked us in the shadows, no longer a friendly face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we should sit down,” Sam suggested as he crossed the room. When he slumped onto the bed, he said, “This story gets dark in a hurry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shed my suit jacket and boots at the small table under the singular hanging lamp. “I get the feeling something pretty awful happened,” I said as I crossed the room and sat beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean withdrew a bottle of scotch from his duffel bag. “Normally I’d save this for after we waste this asshole, but,” he paused as he popped the cork free of the bottle. “I have some doubts that’ll ever come to pass.” He pulled three short plastic cups from his bag then and poured two-finger pours into each. He handed a cup to Sam, who passed it on to me, and handed another to Sam before seating himself at the table with the third. A sip and a hum preceded his thoughts. “You got that picture handy, Y/N?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I dug through my backpack at my feet and withdrew the article. “Right here. I saw The Headle—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Dean interjected. “He’s back there, in the field. Anything else jump out at you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confused, my brow knotted as I focused on the article once more. “I mean, there’s this family standing in front of what is clearly the Sleepy Hollow museum. I recognized the building when we got into town,” I said. Another yawn reminded me I had not slept more than a couple of hours over the last twenty-four. "But I don't see anything else. No aberrations, no distortion, no orbs… other than Tits McGee up in the field there, I got nothing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam pointed to the father. "Look a little closer here. You might recognize someone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Recognize? The picture was thirty years old. Hell, I'd have been a kid back then. Probably just shy of seven years old.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Seven</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My focus snapped to the caption.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thomas (7)</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something instinctual snapped my attention to Sam, and I saw it then. My jaw dropped as recognition crept along my spine. Boyish charm had grown ruggedly handsome, but the fear behind his wide stare had remained the same. I returned to the photograph, focusing on the older brother, and the truth settled in the pit of my stomach. A suave sense of confidence radiated from </span>
  <em>
    <span>John (11). </span>
  </em>
  <span>And he was the spitting image of his father, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Richard Phillips (36)</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He still is</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The image blurred as tears burned my eyes. I looked up to find Dean glassy-eyed and well into his cup. The start of so many thoughts stuttered on my clumsy tongue. How had I missed it back at the Bunker? Of course John Winchester would give an alias to a reporter. When I returned to the photograph one last time, I stared at their father, and the tears rolled down my cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Every few months, John grew out his beard," Dean started. "He had this laser-like focus on hunting down the thing that killed Mary, and a time or two every year, he'd get a wild hair up his ass so bad, he'd forget to shave."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That year," Sam said as he pointed to the photograph, "the wild hair was Sleepy Hollow. He was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that we would learn something important here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean finished his pour of scotch and refreshed his glass. "He found nothing except for a bunch of busted pumpkins and a vengeful spirit."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wiped at my eyes with the cuff of my shirtsleeve. When I turned to Sam, I asked, "How did he exorcise it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shifted closer on the bed as he looked at the photograph. "We don't know. I was too young yet."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean grunted as he sat up in his seat and stood, caught his balance, then shuffled across the room to sit on the opposite bed. "Dad had just started filling me in on what he was doing about a year before we came here. But he did his best to ease me into it. Sam had hardly a clue until that day," he said as he pointed at the photograph.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What happened?" I asked as I turned back to Sam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A deep breath allowed him space to stall, but that same fear in his eyes returned. "I saw something." His stare glazed as it drifted off into the middle distance once more. "Bodies. Headless bodies," he stuttered. "A headless rider on a dark horse." He continued through a stream of consciousness, as though he were somewhere else. Some</span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span> else. "Cannonballs and a whip of human spinal bones engulfed in flames."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart railed against my ribs as if to escape. Numb with dread, my fingers and toes burned, and fresh tears blurred my vision. "You were so young. That must have been terrifying."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded and sipped from his drink. "At the time, yeah. I had nightmares for months. Over the years, I must have forgotten about it or blocked it out. But then you found this case. However you ended up with that article, it was no coincidence."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I looked to Dean then, and he clarified. "Something wanted us to come back. I think. To actually finish the job Dad didn't."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something about that statement sparked a thought I had not yet considered. "How do you know this isn't something leftover from Chuck?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A thoughtful look twisted his face. "We took care of Chuck and his mess. It's definitely a hunch but, I'd wager this isn't related. No, I think Dad just got this one wrong. He thought he did the job and we skipped town. But he screwed up and now The Headless Hessian is back again."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hessian</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What did you just call him?" I asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean regarded Sam, and they shared an equally confused look. "The Headless Hessian."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I thought Hessians were German soldiers that fought for the Brits in the Revolution," I said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Sam nodded in agreement, he said, "You would be correct. And that was the original story until more retellings of the urban legend were printed."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Retellings. Talk about wild hairs. I dove for my backpack then and tore out my tablet. As it booted, I said, "I tried doing some research on The Headless </span>
  <em>
    <span>Horseman</span>
  </em>
  <span> on our way out here, but all I found was bullshit about the urban legend. Pumpkins and horses and heads and Ichabod Crane and crap like that. Nothing about cannonballs and whips made out of human spinal columns."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam propped one leg up on the bed as he turned to face me. "Regardless of what I saw as a kid, that story sounds familiar, too. I know the Hessian angle but I know I've also heard a version with a whip and a cannonball."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Those</span>
  </em>
  <span>," I started, then paused to type furiously, "I never knew. I always thought the myth was Ichabod Crane. But yesterday when I was searching for information, I think I found a website that mentioned a Hessian soldier as a part of the myth." Once I had found what I searched for, I turned the tablet to face them. "I thought it was a mistake. I know way too much about American history and its bullshit colonialism, so I wrote it off as a discrepancy. But when Dean referred to him as the Headless </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hessian</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it clicked."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The image on the tablet flipped through several iterations of a headless rider. The first carried a jack-o-lantern high over his head, then a headless horse with a headless rider appeared on the screen. Next, a rider carrying his own head, followed by a headless rider brandishing a sword. Then another hefting a muzzleloader, and finally a headless rider wielding a vicious whip made out of bone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wait, which legend is that one?" Sam asked as he pointed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The image of a man carrying his head under his arm while astride a horse froze on the page. "According to the website, that appears to be the </span>
  <em>
    <span>dulachan</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Irish folklore. The whip is a part of that legend, too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But our guy doesn't have his dome on him at all," Dean clarified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Exactly," I said, "Which was why I basically wrote this website off. Came to the same conclusion."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam pointed to the screen as the image changed to a giant man astride his horse brandishing his own head high above his shoulders. "That's the Gawain myth. Gawain beheaded the Green Knight."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Excitement flooded my senses as I exclaimed, "Yes! The Green Knight returns to challenge Gawain to a duel every year." The image changed again to that of a headless rider </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>horse. "And that's the Scottish story of the would-be chieftain, Ewen, who was decapitated at the battle at Glen Cainnir."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And the headless man on a carriage?" Dean asked as the image changed once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The Coiste Bodhar. Sometimes referred to as the gan ceann," I explained. “Damn, this website has everything…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But what does it all mean?" Sam asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I opened my mouth to reply but found I had nothing to say. A sudden silence filled the tiny motel room, all the wind sucked from our sails. It had to mean something. So many stories with their variations. Then again, they all shared a singular consistency.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe they’re all correct,” Dean mumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confusion scattered my rambling thoughts, and my focus snapped to Dean. “What are you saying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Every story has the same headless dude in it, right?” he asked, echoing my idea. “Even the Hessian myth isn’t the original story. Irish, Scottish, English. They all have their own versions that are way older than the American story.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But a lot of Americans </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Irish, Scots, and English,” Sam added.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Son of a bitch, </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> are English. I bet our forefathers fought in the Revolution,” Dean concluded and Sam agreed with a confident nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the pattern weaving before my mind’s eye, I found a thread, a singular frayed end, and tugged on it. “So it’s not surprising at all that the stories are so similar. Immigrants made up the Headless Hessian based on their own urban legends from the motherland.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly!” Dean declared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elation filled me for a brief moment before Sam ruined it again. “But then what is it?! A fae? A spirit? A curse? It could be anything with that theory!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a real party pooper, you know that?” I said as I flopped back on the bed. “We were so close to something, I know it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean stood in a rush, then quickly returned to the bed. “Okay, that’s enough of the hooch,” he said as he crushed his empty cup and tossed it into the bin. “Let’s pick something and go after it. We’re never going to figure out what it actually is in a reasonable amount of time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a terrible plan!” Sam barked. “We’ll waste more time just trying random shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of them fell quiet at that. My brain, on the other hand, was anything but. We had everything to handle a fairy, a vengeful spirit, even a curse. But how? How could we blindly choose? I agreed with Dean; we needed to do something and fast. And yet, Sam had a very valid point. I gritted my teeth against the frustration that supplanted my hope. What kind of spirit manifested once a year to kill a bunch of people? How, if all the stories are true, could we put down a fae-curse-spirit?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then it dawned on me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I bolted upright on the bed and blurted, “It’s all three.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between Sam and Dean’s incredulous faces, I forced myself to grasp the last shred of confidence before it fled. “It’s all three. A spirit cursed by the fae.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They regarded one another again, then turned away, silently considering my theory. Even I struggled to believe it. But then Dean snapped his fingers and said, “If it’s ultimately just a cursed spirit, all we need to do is roast his bones.” He pointed at the tablet as he jumped to his feet, steady as a rock. “The Headless Hessian was buried in an unmarked grave of the Old Dutch Church!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turned to Sam then, tense as a drawn bowstring. When his crooked, knowing grin spread across his lips, my stomach jumped into my throat. I hadn’t seen that smile in what felt like a century. And when he spoke, my heart nearly burst with relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks like we’re doing some digging tonight.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Unsolved Mysteries</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sam, Dean, and the reader head to the Old Dutch Cemetery.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Impala jostled over the transition from street to gravel path as Dean turned for the graveyard. Tall, stout trees lined the trail to the Old Dutch Church, their long sinuous branches reaching out as though to grasp and pull unwary travelers into the shadowy depths of the surrounding forest. A chill ran down my spine as the car lumbered on, descending into the darkness, and a foolish sense of fear filled my stomach with dread. I had vanquished many vengeful spirits with Sam and Dean. The last decade of our lives had been nothing but. And yet, something about the case had me on edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Around a shallow bend in the path, the church materialized from the darkness atop a hill as the Impala’s headlights flashed across it. Dark windows and a distinct lack of exterior lighting shrouded the building in impenetrable black despite our approach. The car climbed the steep hill, and as it crest the top, I saw a thick stone wall and a tall iron gate in the distance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At least we’re alone,” Sam mentioned as he followed the church.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Dean started, then squinted through the windshield as we neared the gate. “Is it open?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m guessing the graveyard isn’t maintained if the church is abandoned,” Sam stated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he pulled up to the gate, Dean put the car in park and climbed out. Sam and I followed, and between the three of us, we managed to pull the gate apart wide enough for the Impala to pass. Dean returned to the car and, as he pulled into the graveyard, that chill, loitering beneath my skin, clawed deep into my bones. The Impala entered the great yawning maw and slid into the belly of the beast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I remained still too long, Sam ushered me along with a reassuring hand at my shoulder. His wide stare betrayed his crooked smile, and that creeping dread seeped into the very marrow of my existence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This feels too easy.” I had intended to speak with more conviction, but my voice faltered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t jinx it,” Sam retorted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not trying to,” I said as I rubbed an ache in my left arm. Drawn to the darkness, I scanned the graveyard from edge to edge. “I’m… something feels off. Like we’re forgetting something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to me then, and the warmth of his large hand enveloped my shoulder. An odd sense of calm replaced my looming anxiety. And his voice assuaged my worst concerns. “Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together. I’m here, Dean’s here. You know what you’re doing, too. I believe in us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I believed him. I didn’t just know it to be true, but felt it, like that deep ache in my bones. But the case, the urban legend. It all had me on edge. Despite my oscillating emotions, I smiled a wry smile and looked up to him. A slanted ray of silvery moonlight illuminated his own crooked smile, and the last of my concerns receded to the edges of my mind. “Thanks, Sam. You’re really good at that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned for the car as Dean stopped up the path. “At what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I followed with a skipped step and said, “Making a lady feel special.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His subtle smile turned into a devious smirk I’d not seen on him in age. “Good. You are,” he said. A hitch in his breath hesitated his next statement, but then he turned to me once more and said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while, but I’ve been feeling pretty shitty myself since Chuck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean remained in the car, illuminated by the glow of his cell phone. Safe, for the moment at least, I figured it couldn’t hurt to hear Sam out. “What’s on your mind?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean and I care a lot for you,” he stated as he closed the space between us. He scoffed before he said, "But I… Dammit, we weren’t supposed to be in fucking graveyard when I finally told you… and especially not on a case. I’ve wanted to say this for months, but we haven’t taken a break, and I never get five minutes with you alone—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sam.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His teeth clicked shut at my interruption. A thick swallow bobbed his throat before he said, “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can tell,” I replied with a short laugh. “But I get it. I am, too. I’ve… felt the same way for a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the darkness, his entire face brightened at that. “Really? Like… how long?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turned for the Impala and said over my shoulder, “Longer than I care to admit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trotted to catch up to me at the trunk. When he opened his mouth to speak again, the driver’s door opened, and Dean’s boots crunched on the gravel. Before he squandered the moment, Sam slipped his hand to the small of my back and whispered in my ear, “We’ll talk more later?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sucked a breath through my nose as I bit my bottom lip but managed a quick nod as Sam straightened. There is a reason I don’t play poker; Dean spotted the obvious a mile away, his approach slowing and his glare narrowing on me, then on Sam, who had busied himself on his phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on?” he grumbled as he unlocked the trunk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam hardly looked up. “Hm? Nothing, just waiting for you. C’mon, let’s go,” he said as he grabbed a shovel and flashlight, then strode away for a set of plots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s glare fell to me then, as though he measured me under a microscope, and I shifted on my feet. “Y/N…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?!” I squeaked, then cleared my throat. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t ‘what’ me,” he declared as he rummaged through the trunk. “You look… do you need to take a leak or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The surge of sensations from Sam’s attention passed, and I stilled. “No, I’m fine. Just… graveyards, right? This whole case has me kinda freaked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Look, I’m not dumb, and I know Dean isn’t either. But thankfully, he let my half-truth slide and grabbed a shovel. “You know the drill. This’ll be quick once we dig it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I took the shovel from him, then the flashlight. “Got it. I’ll start helping Sam look for this needle in a haystack unmarked grave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good idea,” he replied. “I’ll catch up in a minute. Need to grab a few more things here. Go on ahead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With my shovel shouldered, I turned and hesitated. Headstones sprawled to the opposite tree line three hundred yards away, and between them rolled a thick mist. Cloud cover rolled in almost as if it were on a schedule. Darkness masked the moon and plunged the graveyard in a night so deep, and my flashlight flickered like a tiny shivering candle flame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One foot in front of the other. That was all I needed to do. Just walk. Read headstones. Find the unmarked grave. Not that hard. Lost count of the graves I've dug up over the last decade. Like I mentioned earlier, Sam and Dean changed my life—for the better—the day we met. Digging up graves happened to be a part of the gig.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I traipsed through the graveyard, headstones passed beneath my flashlight, materializing out of the dark mist. The light lingered long enough for me to see any sort of epitaph, then moved on, the stone vanishing into the fog once more. My mind wandered as that monotonous repetition seeped into my muscles, weary and aching. Hypnotized by the swinging flashlight—left, right, left, right—the graveyard faded away, the headstones ceased to exist, and I wandered aimlessly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Over here!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's booming baritone echoed through the darkness, a bodiless voice carried on a bone-chilling gust of wind. Another shiver coursed along my spine, and my flashlight quivered in my white-knuckled grip. Strange trees and unfamiliar headstones surrounded me, appearing and vanishing in the thick mist that languidly coiled through the graveyard. Sam's voice breached the silence again, emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each echoing thump of my heart beat faster than the previous. Each breath filled less and less of my lungs, shallow and thin. And each thought muddied the waters further as I waded through the muck until not a single coherent idea remained. Silence settled in, stilled the graveyard's night sounds, and death's icy breath lashed out at me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Long seconds stretched so thin, one tick of my watch marked an entire lifetime. As my heart raced, its sharp staccato strikes drowned out the world. A moment, one terrifyingly calm instance of hyperawareness passed before I realized that thumping no longer beat in my head but from through the ground and into my chest. Horse hooves raced in the distance, and with each expeditious plot, they neared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pressure. A shift in the air behind me snapped my instincts into action. I wheeled about and brought the shovel to bear only to find more of the thick graveyard mist ambling between headstones and trees. Sam's voice echoed again. And again. And again. I tried to call back, but no sound escaped my throat, dry as the desert in a drought. Though desperate to move, my feet refused. Rooted in that hallowed ground, I firmly remained where I stood, my head spinning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was until I heard the most terrifying sound in recent memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blood-curdling bray of a horse screeched through the night air, so shrill and ethereal. Impossibly sustained, the cry lingered an eternity. That haunting melody accompanied the thundering hoove’s rhythm, both building in a wild crescendo until out of the mist burst the stuff of nightmares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Black as pitch, a horse bearing a headless rider barreled through the graveyard straight for me. Fire fanned from the steed’s wide eyes, and smoke blacker than his coat roiled from his nose. Bones and ligaments jutted through his muscles, and his jet black hide scored with whip lashes, runnels of blood, and burns beneath crimson and iron tack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, the horse paled in comparison to its burden. Astride the cursed beast sat a giant of a man clad in green armor so dark, it was nearly black. He wielded a fiery whip that cracked like thunder with a flick of his wrist, and in the other hand, he manifested a flaming cannonball. He hefted it high over his head—the empty void where his head </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>have been—and aimed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never in my life had I run so fast. Like lightning, I leaped through the graveyard, racing for whatever outlet I could find. Reaching tree branches snagged my coat, my jeans, and one sliced a gash across my cheek. Pain and fear fueled my survival, and the last ounce of hope I had desperately clung to echoed once more, so much closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y/N?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam’s shout distracted me a second too long; the fiery cannonball singed my hair as it hurtled past my head and destroyed a headstone. Graveyard turf caught my toe as I threw my arms up to shield myself from flying stone, and I crashed to the dirt face first. Blood poured from my nose and soaked my shirt as I scrambled to my feet. Whitehot pain rolled in waves across my face, and tears blurred my vision as I searched for my thrown flashlight and shovel. Thundering hooves closed on me, drawing closer and closer until my hand seized the metal grip of my shovel. I torqued my entire body and swung the bladed end with all my might.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rider’s whip coiled high above his shoulders, then unfurled with a wicked snap of his arm. Inch by inch, the flaming bones rolled to me until time raced to catch up. The last foot disappeared in a single heartbeat. An earth-shattering crack of thunder rattled in my teeth as the bone whip wrapped around the steel shaft of my shovel. He snapped it from my hands with little effort and freed his whip, then raised it again for another strike.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the fact that I knew I had no chance of escaping, I ran. Thunder rolled once more as the whip descended upon me. Sudden clarity steadied my heart as death’s icy chill breathed down my back once more. Final heartbeats counted down my last seconds as the whip’s scorching grasp coiled about my neck. Where time had once moved too fast, it slowed again, creeping until it stopped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world faded away to nothing. No sound, no light. No racing hooves or hearts. No shrill horse’s cry. No fire and no ice. No pain. Suspended in a nothingness sea, I drifted aimlessly. Lost. Even time’s relevance ceased to exist. The threads of my consciousness unraveled as though tugged by anxious fingers. Soon, I knew that I, too, would unweave until I remained nothing but a mere memory in other's minds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then a cry pierced the silence, muted, as though it belonged to someone else’s. Desperate, I focused every conscious sensation that yet belonged to me on that singular sound, a siren’s salvation, and clung to it. The voice thinned and focused, sharpened as though I dialed in on the perfect frequency until it burst through the emptiness and rendered me senseless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then I fell. Hundreds of thousands of feet, I descended, plummeting faster and faster as the shout continued to grow. Another voice joined, bellowing my name as I sank. The onslaught of vertigo ravaged every fiber of my pitiable existence as I tumbled through space and time until my mind and body reunited. Reality returned in a blossoming of flashlights, two men shouting in shock, and a freshly dug grave into which I dropped the final five feet. I screamed as I crashed onto the exposed coffin, then collapsed in a heap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My first gasping breath dragged in dirt and grave rot, and I choked. Before I could string a coherent thought together, two sets of hands grasped me by the arms and hauled me from the grave. They set me on my feet, but I collapsed to the ground, sprawling on my back and stared up at a clear, cloudless night sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cascade of brilliant stars dotted the emptiness, teaming with ancient light. Cool, clean air filled my lungs for the first pure breath I’d taken in a century. Clarity followed, and my first thought echoed between my ears like a struck church bell.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did I just cheat death?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y/N?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam’s strength slipped beneath my shoulders and legs as he hauled me into his lap. His face, knotted and twisted with worry, flooded my vision. “Y/N, are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inventory. No sliced cheek. No burnt hair, no broken nose. Most importantly, no burned lashes on my neck. I started a few thoughts before I settled on, “I think I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seated me on the ground once more and sat beside me. Dean knelt as well and placed a stable hand on my shoulder. “What happened? One second, I was right behind you, and then the next, you were gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chilling scream of an undead horse echoed in the furthest recesses of my mind. “I saw it. The…” I stuttered as I motioned to my head. “He had a whip of bone engulfed in flames and a fiery cannonball.” I paused, seized by the memory of such fear. “He... he ran me down—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it, I’m putting an end to this shit right now,” Dean interjected as he hopped into the grave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam and I leaned over the edge as Dean pried open the old pinewood box. Wood splintered and popped as he made short work of the rotted enclosure. But then the top snapped free and fell aside to reveal nothing and everything all at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ash and black scorch marks marred the entire interior of the coffin. “What the fuck?” Dean spat. He sifted through the ashes, flinging them about, searching. “No, this can’t be right, there has to be something—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dad did it.” Dean and I both turned to Sam. “Thirty years ago, he had the same idea we did: roast the bones, send the spirit on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean turned back to the box and stared. A long minute passed as thumped his crowbar on his thigh, the gears in his head churning so hard, I swore I heard them. Then he replaced the cover and crawled from the grave with Sam’s help. He dusted off his jeans but remained silent as he paced, deep in thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I grasped Sam’s hand and hauled myself up to stand beside him. His warmth enveloped me as I curled into him, and he held me close. With a reassuring squeeze, he asked, “Are you sure you’re alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will be,” I sighed. “I think I…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought trailed off as Dean began shoveling dirt back into the grave. “Son of a bitch ghost,” he spat with a violent stab of the shovel. “Fucking piece of shit curse.” Another stab. “Stupid fairy jerk.” Another stab. “Lame ass urban legends!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean!” Sam insisted, “what the hell are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does it look like I’m doing?!” Dean barked. “We gotta get out of here and figure out what to do next before this circus freak shows up again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam sighed as he smoothed his hand across my shoulders and said, “You can head back to the car, I’ll help—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” I declared, far louder than I had intended. “Sorry, no. I’ll…” I spotted my shovel and flashlight lying not three feet away from me. Unwilling to question how either object had returned with me, I hefted both. “I’ll help. I need something to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Concern clouded Sam’s visage, but he shrugged and made room for me to dig. As I started in, fresh memories flooded my mind’s eye, and I did my best to relive the moments as clearly—and objectively—as possible. Undead horse. Crimson tack. Headless rider. Fiery whip and cannonball. Green armor that could easily be mistaken for black.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was wearing green armor,” I stated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean froze at that. “Green? Like the Gawain legend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I assume so,” I replied as I continued shoveling. “I think we’re still on the right track. It’s an amalgamation of urban legends. The Hessian, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>dulachan</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Gawain. A fae-cursed german soldier that fought against the colonies during the American revolution. Not sure how the English legend plays into it though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe it doesn’t,” Sam said with a grunt. “Maybe being decapitated by an enemy soldier during a war is close enough to match the English urban legend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could be why he only comes back once a year,” I agreed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean shook his head. “Let’s just get this grave filled and figure it out back at the motel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sense of finality on the topic, we continued to shovel. As I worked, I couldn’t help but lose myself in thought to the point where I hardly recalled shoveling. A filled grave stood before me less than half an hour later. Wordlessly, we gathered up our things, then turned our backs on the grave and started for the car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No more than fifty yards from the unmarked headstone, Sam stopped first, frozen solid. I lurched to an awkward halt beside him, my hand held fast in his. I looked up to him and asked, “What’s… Sam?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stared straight ahead at the car, then looked at me. “Didn’t you hear that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” I said as I turned to the Impala, then back to him. “What are you talking about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, Sam, let’s—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I heard it then; the relentless cry of a terrifying horse careened through the still graveyard. Dean had heard it too, his thought suspended, unfinished. The echoing bray of the horse faded as a fresh thundering of hooves clamored in the distance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get to the car!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My shout startled Sam and Dean into motion. The first hundred yards passed, but beating hooves pounded in from all sides. Another terrifying whinny screeched through the night, and in the last hundred yards to the car, my nightmare returned in full force.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The undead horse and its rider materialized from the mist and leaped the car’s trunk, heading straight for us. I screamed and skidded to a halt, then twisted to run back into the graveyard. Sam and Dean followed, catching my shorter gait in a few sprinting strides. With one final look over my shoulder, I spotted the headless rider gaining on us and shouted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can’t outrun him!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ahead, Dean pointed at a wide paved path on the far side of the graveyard. “Follow that road! I’ve got an idea!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“INTO THE WOODS?!” I screeched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trust me!” he shouted back as we reached the road and turned towards the treeline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I trusted Dean with my life. But he had not seen what I had. Just as the thought crossed my mind, an iron ball of fire lobbed past Dean’s head and landed in the asphalt, spraying dirt and rock. Dean leaped the divot and checked back over his shoulder. “Seriously, who throws fucking cannonballs at people?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without a second to retort, we rounded a sharp curve in the path that twisted around a copse separated from the forest. On the other side sat a fork in the path, our only options left or right. At the last possible second, Dean darted right, and we followed. The road narrowed considerably, too small for a car to pass. Asphalt transitioned to dirt, and thick forest trees encroached. No light from the moon or stars penetrated the dense canopy above.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I checked behind me to see the rider and his nightmare steed gaining ground, no more than fifty yards away. “Dean, what are we doing?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He searched the trees, the path as his head whipped about, but I knew he saw nothing but the same desperate hope of salvation I sought. Thundering hooves counted down the final moments of our lives, one gallop after the next. Though I had seen dire situations hunting beside Sam, Dean, and Castiel over the years, none compared to the complete despair I felt in that moment, running ragged through the woods from the Headless fucking Horseman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An urban legend was about to kill us. A friggin' fairytale told to scare kids. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean skidded to a halt so suddenly, Sam and I blasted twenty yards past him. I spun about gracelessly and gripped Sam’s arm for leverage. Behind us, Dean stood in a pool of opulent moonlight illuminating the dirt path through a clearing in the forest canopy. Beyond the lighted path, the rider and his horse closed the distance so fast, Dean risked losing his chance to escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Dean, what are you doing?! Run!" Sam bellowed as he started for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sam, no! Stop!" I pleaded as I ran to catch him, but his legs proved too long and too fast for my own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite his speed, I knew he'd never make it. An unseen force hindered him, as though the hands of the dead emerged from the ground and snatched at his ankles. He reached for Dean, his entire body straining and stretched to its fullest. The horse’s hooves pounded the dirt only a few yards away, but Dean stood fast, head held high and feet planted. And there in the darkness, I understood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean knew something I did not. Something worth its weight in gold. Literally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heavy coins landed in the dirt as he backed into the shadows and flung his arm in a wide arc. Like so many shards of broken glass, they scattered. Each tumbled and turned end over end, glinting and glittering as they flipped and rolled to settle in the dirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Dean's final cast of the dice, time stood still. He distilled everything that transpired that night in that singular moment. I watched helplessly as Dean stood defiant in the shadows, and Sam failed to reach him. The horse leaped the final feat as the rider raised his whip, coiling high over his shoulders. Hooves breached the moonlight as the rider brought down his arm in eternal judgment, the flaming lash his gavel. Horse and whip bore down on Dean, crossing the golden coins’ threshold and thoroughly bathed in brilliant moonlight. My last hope of salvation incinerated, and in that final second, I screamed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that second never came. In a single, raging beat of my heart, time, and reality reunited, and I hardly believed my eyes. Smoke and cinders smoldered at the horse's hooves, engulfing him and the rider to headless shoulders as though fire had caught dry tinder. The nightmare steed cried out its ethereal scream. The rider raised both hands, whip, and a new projectile brandished high until consumed by the squall. And then a turbulent gust scattered the ashes as though they had never existed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My scream faded as it echoed through the woods. Sam whipped about, terrified eyes searching for me in the darkness. Found, he raced to me, and I grasped onto his arms. One massive hand cupped my cheek as he looked me in the eye, searched for any sign of injury, and begged for reassurance. I dove into his embrace then, unwilling to stand alone any longer. All my anger and fear drained in the safety of his arms as though it ran through a sieve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A soft clinking of metal drew my attention past Sam, and I saw Dean gathering up the golden coins at his feet. He returned them to his pocket, then headed for us, dusting his hands on his thighs along the way. When he reached us, his typical smile spread across his lips, and he spoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's one way to waste a ghost."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is it…" I asked, hope clouding my better judgment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It'll buy us some time," Sam said with a reassuring squeeze of my shoulder. "We need to get back to the motel and figure out what's next."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean started back for the car first. "You know, I'm starting to wonder if it's a tul—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> a tulpa, Dean," Sam spat as he followed, urging me along beside him. "Seriously, we've only ever seen one of those things."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean shook his head and laughed sardonically. "It's got all the signs. A big ol' mess of urban legends and myths. An entire country that believes in it. And real power. I mean, did you see that thing, it damn near ran me down." When neither of us responded, he turned over his shoulder and his ridiculous grin faded. "What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You could have died," I stated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, he shrugged. "But I didn't," he said as he pointed to his pocket. "Back up plan."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Speaking of which," Sam said before I could give Dean a piece of my mind. "Where'd you get that idea?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As we neared the fork, Dean jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at me. "That website. I looked up a little on each legend and found the </span>
  <em>
    <span>dulachan</span>
  </em>
  <span> is sort of banished for a hot minute if a gold coin is tossed in its path. So I figured, why not try twenty gold coins?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Try?" I repeated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the fork, he stopped and turned to face us. "I had a hunch."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hunch. I knew what that meant. He had no clue. One or twenty, Dean had not the faintest notion if a gold coin would stop the spirit. No additional research. No supporting theories. Nothing. Just a fucking hunch and the confidence of a man with a death wish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I opened my mouth, intent on giving Dean the tongue-lashing of his life. My hands shook as I parted from Sam, trembled as one coiled into a furiously extended index finger, and the other balled into a tight fist. Unbridled heat twisted in the pit of my stomach, contorted my face, and rattled in my throat as I began to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But cold dread drowned my rage, and my words succumbed to that torrential fear. A ghastly pale man astride an equally pale horse rounded the sharp corner past the fork, less than twenty yards behind Dean. No clop of hooves announced his approach, no horse’s chuff, no clatter of tack. Silent as the dead, he followed the path and stopped only a stride short behind Dean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I gawked openly, as did Sam, and when neither of us spoke, Dean glanced over his shoulder only to startle and shout as he leaped to my side. “Christ, man, don’t sneak up on a guy like that!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pale rider’s gaze lazily drifted down and stared each one of us in the eye. Otherworldly, he appeared as though he had been ripped from his timeline and placed in ours. A three-point hat covered his long hair tied back with a thin leather strap, and a once-fine wool coat covered his linen shirt and felted vest. Thin gloves sheathed his hands, holding the reins. Heavy wool pants draped loosely down the thigh to gather at the knee where thick stockings tucked in beneath. Wide-buckled shoes with short heels completed the ensemble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gray layer of ash covered the rider, his clothes, his tack, and his horse, most terrifying of all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good evening, my lords, my lady. Would any of you know the way to the schoolhouse? I seem to have gotten lost again…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glanced at Sam, who shook his head, then Dean. He cleared his throat and said, “We’re not from around here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pity,” the rider said. A twitch of the reins shifted his horse down the path to his right. “It’s always this fork that gives me trouble. Mayhaps the right will prove correct this time.” With a gentle prod of his heels, the horse obeyed and began walking once more. “A good evening to you all.” He tipped his hat as he passed, then turned ahead for the trail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sudden need to confirm my suspicions gripped me like a vice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Talk about a wild hair.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait!” I squirmed from Sam and Dean’s arms and followed the rider. “Who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The horse turned broadside as the rider’s glassy stare fell upon me once more. Though I knew the answer before he spoke, my fingers and toes burned with anticipation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m the new teacher. Ichabod Crane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned back to the path with a final touch to his hat, and his horse started ahead once more. The dark depths of the forest swallowed him whole, vanishing as though a figment of my imagination.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wordlessly, I returned to Sam and Dean, who also said nothing. A stunned silence followed us the remainder of the walk back to the car. Without anything to pack up—I made a mental note to recover our shovels and flashlights, lest they be found later—Dean slid in behind the wheel and started her up. I slipped into the backseat, beyond exhausted and unsurprised to find Sam there as well. Unintrusive, his fingers slipped between mine, and I clung to him, an anchor in a sea of madness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean grasped the steering wheel, white knuckles twisting over the leather and a thousand-mile stare gazing through the windshield. When Sam tapped him on the shoulder, he shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, then wrenched the shifter into drive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the gate and past the church, we returned to the main road. Small town Sleepy Hollow passed us by as though we drifted through another world. Halloween decorations no longer appeared quaint or impressive; grisly murals and disturbing effigies hooked into fresh memories, and I looked to Sam for solace. For comfort. For grounding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it worked. Kaleidoscope colors diffused the dull gray world around me. Only Sam and the distant, soothing rumble of the Impala remained. Though fear roiled in the pit of my stomach, a renewed sense of hope tempered that heat. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Special</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’d meant it in jest earlier. Sam didn’t make me feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>special</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He helped me </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span>. In a world where I blocked out </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> much, he managed to give me something worth feeling again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like that, the Impala undulated up and over the driveway as Dean turned into the parking lot of the motel. In his spot before our door, he snapped the shifter into park and slumped back in his seat. A long moment of silence stretched between us all until he sighed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Son of a bitch.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Midnight Ride</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The end of an era.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"You alright?"</p><p>Lost in thought, I had hardly heard Sam. But the warmth of his presence roused me from my stupor. I shook my head and rubbed the burn from my eyes as I spoke. "Yeah, I… I'm just exhausted. And this research isn't exactly entertaining."</p><p>Sam took a seat beside me at the small motel table and pulled his chair so close I might as well have sat in his lap. The warmth of one massive hand enveloped mine, and he set the other on my bouncing knee. That quake subsided beneath his touch, something no other person in my life had managed. But then a sudden awareness sent a shiver down my spine, and I scanned the motel room, searching. Sam, perceptive as ever, answered my unasked question. "Dean's in the shower. He'll be a while. We've got some time. To talk. Only if you—"</p><p>I didn't want to talk. At all. What I wanted betrayed every common sense I had. At that moment, I’d do whatever I could, use whatever magic at Sam’s disposal, make a deal with Rowena, <em> anything </em> to cleanse last night's stain of indelible memories from my mind. And yet, I knew those options were anything but. Between Sam’s apparent affection for me and Dean’s overprotective brotherly nature, neither would allow me to harm myself willingly just to get rid of a few nightmares.</p><p>But as I stared into Sam’s prismatic gaze, the desire to replace those memories, to shadow them with newer, happier moments, overpowered me.</p><p>No. I didn’t want to talk. So, instead, I kissed him.</p><p>Myriad descriptions, all vastly varied from one to the next, could never capture the feeling of Sam's lips on mine. I could regale you with comparison after comparison. But none of them would do him justice. Though the moment lasted but a breath, eons passed in that explosive connection where I knew and felt and lived a thousand lifetimes with him. I wanted to do nothing more in that breath than melt into him forever.</p><p>My tablet chirped, and the case loomed at the edge of my subconscious. All those imaginary lifetimes vanished as I parted from him, replaced by a cruel reality. Not that I'd squander a reality that consisted of Sam Winchester's love. Or his crooked grin and half-lidded gaze.</p><p>"Good talk."</p><p>Despite my sour mood, I laughed. "I'm glad we could come to an understanding."</p><p>His fingers slipped between mine as he spoke. "Thing is, I forgot… what I said about us last night. When I asked if you wanted to talk now, I meant about what happened to you."</p><p>"Oh." Well, shit.</p><p>I have never known a person wiser, more emotionally aware than Sam. And Dean often gave him a run for his money. But after all the years hunting together, Sam and I operated on an uncannily similar wavelength. The guy read me like an open book. And when I balked at recounting my harrowing journey beyond the veil, he understood without another word.</p><p>"Only if you want," he repeated with a reassuring squeeze of my thigh. "Otherwise, I wouldn't mind a little more of your…" he paused with a coy smirk as his eyes darted to my lips and back. "... preferred method of communication."</p><p>"I…" My tablet chirped once more, obliterating the one desire I'd felt in months. "Sam, I promise, we make it out of this case alive, I won't leave your bedroom for a week."</p><p>His smile widened as he said, "Only if we spend the following week in yours."</p><p>I kissed him again, a little harder, more insistent. Parted, I agreed. "Done."</p><p>My tablet chimed for the third time, and I turned to it at last. Sam pointed at the screen and said, "What's cockblocking me?"</p><p>Though I laughed, a furious sting prickled my cheeks at the thought of Sam's… I forced the imagery from my mind and decidedly focused on the tablet instead of his face. "I was emailing the curator at the museum. She just sent me some documents about Sleepy Hollow's history."</p><p>"Oh?" Sam mused. "Anything worthwhile?" He reached for his laptop, pulled it across the table, and flipped up the lid.</p><p>When I opened the attached documents, my heart sank. They merely verified much of what I'd already learned. "Sleepy Hollow was a part of the Tarrytown settlement, originally called North Tarrytown. Most of this information is just facts and history about the town. While the Ichabod Crane story is all rooted in it, the urban legends and folklore are only related so far as this jackass on a horse with no head."</p><p>"Not surprising," Sam stated.</p><p>"No,” I whined, “but it <em> is </em> a little disheartening that he has next to nothing to do with the town he haunts.”</p><p>Sam nodded, then said, “There might be more, though. Earlier this morning, I read that Washington Irving was born in Manhattan. He traveled for many years, but he eventually returned to New York and lived out the rest of his life in Sleepy Hollow. He's buried in that cemetery."</p><p>"I suppose," I replied, "but I was looking for something a little more concrete than the author lived and died here. Like actual people that Irving modeled his characters after. Or other legends. He traveled in Europe for quite some time. There's even a Scandanavian story, <em> The Wild Hunt </em>, that has the same throughline. A headless rider that lobs his head at people."</p><p>Sam piqued at that, eyes narrowed and head tilted. "But Ichabod Crane is the original telling of the story here. Right?"</p><p>I nodded. "Forgetting that it's a hodgepodge of cultural ghost stories, yes."</p><p>He laughed at that. "I haven’t read it since I was a kid.”</p><p>“Me neither,” I replied. “I only know bits and pieces.”</p><p>Dean burst from the bathroom at that, a towel wrapped around his head and one about his waist. “Ichabod Crane was a new school teacher in Sleepy Hollow. And he was hellbent on marrying a woman, Katrina, who was set to inherit her father's very wealthy farm estate.”</p><p>"Oh," I mused with a mocking smirk at Sam. "Sounds like we have an expert in our midst."</p><p>Dean waved me off as he dug through his bag at the end of the bed. "Sam knows it, too. Right?"</p><p>“Yeah," Sam started, "there was another suitor, though. Arthur Van Brunt. He went by Brom Bones Van Brunt.” He paused as he stood. “It’s kind of funny, really, this story reads like a high school drama. The lanky geeky nerd and the oafish jock fight over a girl. Except they never get into the physical altercation Brom wanted. He goaded Ichabod constantly, pulling pranks on him. But Ichabod never took the bait.”</p><p>I looked at my tablet, where a black and white photograph of a man stared back at me, then returned to them both. Dean withdrew a change of clothes from his bag, then headed back to the bathroom. Through the open door, he said, “So the story goes, Ichabod went to a party at the Van Tassel farm where he intended to woo and win over Katrina. Brom, instead, scares the living piss out of him with a bunch of ghost stories, one of which was the Headless Horseman.”</p><p>“Yeah, I remember that much,” I said. “And then he tried to propose to Katrina, but she shot him down.”</p><p>“Exactly,” Sam chimed. “I love how ambiguous the ending is here. Ichabod leaves the party all upset about Katrina. He gets on his horse, Gunpowder, who is very skittish, and heads home. But the Hessian shows up and chases him. Ichabod had just learned the legend, so he heads for the bridge near the Old Dutch Burying Ground. He knows the spirit can’t cross the bridge. Ichabod would have made a decent hunter.”</p><p>Dean’s laughter echoed from the bathroom, and he emerged dressed and hair coiffed. “I forgot how innocent this story is. He gets to the bridge and crosses it, but the Hessian hurls his freakin’ head at him before disappearing. The head domes Ichabod and knocks him off his horse. Nobody ever finds his body. Only his hat, Gunpowder’s wrecked saddle, and a randomly smashed pumpkin were found near the bridge.”</p><p>A thought bubbled up in the back of my mind and raced to my lips. “So <em> that’s </em> where the jack-o-lantern head comes from. What if… holy shit, what if it was just a prank gone wrong? What if Brom was playing another trick on him and accidentally killed Ichabod?”</p><p>Hesitation stalled them both as Sam and Dean regarded one another. Then Dean turned to me and asked, “That does <em> not </em> explain what the hell happened last night. No fucking way that was a prank.”</p><p>I hated it, but I knew he was right. “But then what the hell! I’m almost beginning to think it <em> is </em>a tulp—”</p><p>“It’s notta tulpa!” Sam shouted. Dean clamped a hand over his mouth, and his shoulders shook with uncontrollable laughter. Sam rounded on him and barked, “Shut up!”</p><p>“I can’t help it,” Dean managed through peeling laughter. “Your Arnold impression is improving.”</p><p>“C’mon, guys, we need to figure this out,” I groaned.</p><p>Dean settled through a deep breath, although his face remained far too red. Sam slumped into his seat again, his stare glazing over, unseeing. When he remained silent, Dean said, “Alright, let’s say they’re spirits. And it’s still this mess of combined ancient myths, ghost stories, and cultural legends. We’re still on the same page there, right?”</p><p>Sam and I nodded slowly. “After what happened last night, there’s no way they’re anything else.”</p><p>“If they’re spirits that haven’t moved on, we have to burn the bodies,” I stated.</p><p>“Or destroy an object that might be keeping them topside,” Dean added.</p><p>Scrambled thoughts rattled through my mind as I ran down a list of objects. I soon found myself lost in a warren of possibilities, and as I stared ahead at my tablet, equally dazed as Sam. An answer picked at the edge of my subconscious, like a half-remembered dream. No matter how hard I tried to grasp it, the thought slipped through my hand like water.</p><p>“None of it is real.”</p><p>From the corner of my eye, I glared at Sam. He remained still, his glassy far-off stare yet unfocused as he spoke. "It's all stories. They're all stories that are too much of a mess for a tulpa. So none of it is real. Whatever these spirits have latched onto, it's nothing from those stories." </p><p>With his words, the image on my tablet clarified as my mind focused. Understanding crept along my skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. I stood then, spurred to my feet, and spoke. “The unmarked grave never mattered. It’s fake.”</p><p>Sam nodded. “There aren’t any bodies to burn because those bodies never existed to begin with.”</p><p>“It’s all fairy tales and make-believe bullshit,” Dean declared.</p><p>I looked first to Sam, then Dean, then back to my tablet, where an image of Washington Irving filled the screen. I turned the tablet to face them, and all at once, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Together, we spoke.</p><p>“Death of the author.”</p><hr/><p>Never in my entire life had I wished to be anywhere else more than at that very moment.</p><p>Three stark-white flashlights illuminated a grand headstone, memorialized by the town of Sleepy Hollow, for one Washington Irving. After so many years without care, overgrowth covered much of the base, and the stone desperately needed a washing. Beyond that, none of us made a single move to start the arduous process of digging five feet into the earth. We simply stood there, silent as the dead beneath our boots.</p><p>"Either of you uncomfortable with this?" Dean asked, breaking the silence.</p><p>"Yeah," Sam and I replied.</p><p>Dean started towards the headstone and said, "Good. Glad it's not just me. Something about this feels wrong."</p><p>"It's because we've never seen someone's spirit manifest as anything other than itself," Sam stated. "We're literally digging up a guy because his spirit <em> might </em> have transfigured into characters from his own story."</p><p>"Can spirits even do that?" I asked as I scanned the treeline of the graveyard. Though dense fog had choked the grounds last night, literal clouds suffocated the entire cemetery where we stood. "That seems like a lot of power for a single spirit."</p><p>Dean posted at the head of the grave. "Only one way to find out." He pocketed his flashlight and hefted his shovel. When he saw us still standing at the foot of the plot, he said, "I'm not digging this grave on my own."</p><p>Despite the need to end such a vengeful spirit, I had little motivation to help. Slower than necessary, I picked up my shovel and shuffled to the center of the plot. Sam stepped in behind me, shovel at the ready.</p><p>Dean raised his shovel to his waist. Before he moved further, a distant, indiscernible sound echoed through the woods. What was once visible of the nearby treeline no longer was. That thick fog filled the darkness, and I saw neither trees nor sky nor stars. I heard the sound again, too far to tell what it was, but not far enough to miss. My flashlight shook violently as I spun about, but I found nothing besides the Impala behind us.</p><p>I turned back to Dean just in time to watch as he plunged his shovel's blade into the dirt. Agonizingly slow, it descended each inch slower than the last. That distant sound echoed once more, ever so slightly closer. As though he conducted an orchestra, that sound crescendoed into an unbearable scream as Dean’ shovel descended until metal returned to the earth.</p><p>Earsplitting thunder exploded overhead, and instinct forced all three of us to our knees. That booming drum rolled, mutated until it rumbled through the ground. I knew that sound, too familiar with the feel reverberating through my feet. A fresh wave of icy dread coursed through my veins as those thundering hooves pounded the dirt.</p><p>Over the headstone, I pointed my flashlight as I stood. Terror incarnate barreled through the graveyard astride his deathly steed. Above his head, a readied missile sprouted flames as he raced towards us. Every instinct screamed to run. Fuck everything about the legend, the haunting, just get the hell out of there.</p><p>But I couldn't move. Frozen solid, I merely gripped my flashlight and shivered.</p><p>"Run!"</p><p>Dean's shove launched me into Sam's arms, kickstarting my senses. I sprinted for the Impala, desperate for her salvation. I reached it a beat behind Sam and Dean and dove into the backseat. The engine roared to life with a sharp snarl as Dean twisted the ignition. He wrenched down on the shifter, slammed on the gas, and I launched into the backrest as the car sped off in reverse.</p><p>"What are you doing?!" I screamed.</p><p>"What I should have done last night!" he barked.</p><p>I opened my mouth to demand a better answer but only managed to scream and gesticulate wildly. The Headless Horseman vaulted Washington Irving's headstone and, in one smooth motion, launched his flaming cannonball directly at the car.</p><p>The sickening crunch of iron on steel paled in comparison to Dean's wail of rage. He threw the wheel to the left, and I grasped onto the backrest as the car lurched, spinning about-face. The transmission groaned in protest as Dean threw the shifter into drive and slammed on the gas once more. With all her horses leaping down the road, the Impala raced into the night, and I flattened against the backseat.</p><p>"Mother fucking piece of shit ghost!" Dean bellowed. "Fucking hit my car with a god damned cannonball! I’ll kill you! Do you hear me?!"</p><p>“Dean, just watch where you’re going!” Sam shouted as he braced against the backrest and the frame of the car.</p><p>The speedometer slid past eighty, and I gripped the leather backrest, nails scoring the supple hide. Sweat coated my palms, and my heart railed against my chest. "Dean, what the hell are you doing! You're going to get us killed!"</p><p>The fork in the road appeared around the sharp corner, and Dean roared, "Just trust me!" as he took the paved road to the left.</p><p>One hundred. The blinding flash of a memory overpowered my senses. Nearly forgotten, the dull vision replayed in my mind, muted, as though it belonged to someone else. A car sped along a country road. A dog. Spinning, careening, crashing. I screamed as my seatbelt failed. Blood pooled in the cornstalks beneath a sky so blue.</p><p>"Try to follow me now, you son of a bitch!"</p><p>Dean's voice snapped me back to reality. Behind us, the Headless Horseman gained, and his whip gathered with a flick of his wrist. The vicious bones uncoiled, and another memory threatened to take me under once more. It seemed that death had its own wish for me and would not rest until it came true. Another flash of a fresh memory consumed my senses, dragged me down to my own personal hell. But then a light emerged amidst the darkness, warm and enveloping. I opened my eyes to find Sam holding my hand.</p><p>"Focus, Y/N. Stay with me, we're gonna get through this, I promise."</p><p>"There's the bridge!" Dean shouted as he pointed. The engine whined, straining under his insistent foot. He glared in his rearview mirror as he growled, "Let's race, motherfucker."</p><p>The Impala raced over the transition from asphalt to old stone and wood, rattling the car from nose to rear end. Sam’s fingers turned ghastly white in my grip, but he paid that no mind. His focus remained steady, wide eyes staring into mine. Though he tried to reassure me, the roar of the Impala swallowed his words, and they fell on deaf ears. Like a moth to the flame, I turned back to the Headless Horseman one last time.</p><p>The coiled whip unfurled laboriously, each bone rolling over the next and slower than the last. That crawl, that agonizingly painful creep blurred the liminal space between truth and myth’s fabrication until nothing but a swathe of gray smeared reality. My mind filled in that blank void, and I knew then that death had arrived to collect his escaped prisoner.</p><p>But the end never came. That infinite second ticked by, lost to the endless depths of space and time as the car breached the end of the bridge. I braced myself against Sam as he reached over the backrest for me. Dean stood both feet on the brake, and the car lurched forward as the tires seized, shredding on the asphalt. When the deafening roar of the Impala faded to its soothing idle, I eased my grip on Sam's arms, and he returned to his seat. Dean checked both of us before scrambling from the car, and we followed not a beat behind.</p><p>In the center of the bridge, the Headless Horseman and his nightmare steed hung in the air, suspended mid-gallop. A deep purple glow seeped through the grouted stone surrounding the horse, and beneath his hooves, the bricks quaked. Violent flashes of an eerie green mist lanced from the cracks in the centuries-old rock and lashed the rider’s raised arms to drag him from his horse. Wrenched free of the saddle, he crashed to the stone, his metal armor clattering with a sickening crunch. I winced, unsure of what I was witnessing, an unwitting and unwilling voyeur.</p><p>But I forced myself to keep looking. I had to. I had to see it through to the end, to know without a shadow of a doubt that we had indeed laid such a vengeful spirit to rest.</p><p>The Hessian launched into the air with a vicious twist of the mysterious green lashes. Gale winds swept over the bridge, filling my nose with burning brimstone, and then the horse burst into flames. He screamed his unholy cry, and I startled into Sam's arms. Though I continued to watch, I cowered into him, and he held me close without a word. The vile inferno consumed the horse in seconds, reducing him to a pile of ash.</p><p>The rider convulsed as though in pain, writhing and contorting so awkwardly to be free of his bonds. Metal twisted, grinding and scraping against itself in his bid for escape. I realized then that, in his death throes, the Headless Horseman would emit no other sound. He could not beg for forgiveness nor absolution. He could not plead for his continued existence nor one last moment on earth. No last words with a loved one. And for a minuscule second, I pitied him.</p><p>Lightning fractured the sky as the purple glow between the bricks focused in a circle encompassing the rider. As the edges brightened, the bricks inside slipped away into an endless darkness. I had seen nothing like it in all my years hunting. And as the green bonds lowered him towards the void, he thrashed, deeply aware of the end that approached.</p><p>A scream rent from my mouth as an arm of sinew and bone and rotted flesh burst from the black depths and grasped the rider's leg. Metal collapsed like tissue paper beneath the fierce grip, and bone crumpled to dust. Another arm lunged for his chest and cleaved his breastplate in two, embedding in his ribs. A third nearly ripped his arm from its socket, his forearm crushed, and a fourth pierced his thigh. Those horrifying limbs dragged the Headless Horseman to his doom, jailors imprisoning their captive.</p><p>Feet, legs, and torso succumbed to the darkness, and a defeated stillness settled his ruined body. At last, his arms and headless shoulders sank beneath the zenith, and The Headless Horseman was no more. Like so many grains of sand through an hourglass, the ashes of his steed followed him into the void. </p><p>A final flare of purple and green light surged as lightning illuminated the sky once more. Wind settled, and clouds parted to reveal a full, brilliant moon and a night sky full of glittering stars. At last, the void receded, and the bridge stood whole once more. The sounds of night creatures returned, and the clearing surrounding the bridge expanded as though it took a full, deep breath to hold, its first in thirty years.</p><p>Maybe, it knew. Just as I felt it in my bones, the trees, the stone, the tall grass, and the creek beneath the bridge all felt it down to their tiniest molecules. It was over. At long last, the Headless Horseman was no more.</p><p><em> For now </em>.</p><p>A clattering of bones cut through the peaceful calm, and I flung my arms out ahead of Sam and Dean. Not that I would protect them from much of anything, what with nothing but my bare fists at the ready. Tension crept across my shoulders when I spotted the source of the sound, and the three of us scrambled backwards towards the car.</p><p>The bone whip rattled to a stop a few feet from us, perfectly coiled with its handle extended towards my boots. I regarded Sam first, then Dean, only to then turn back for the Impala's trunk with a scoff. A readied can of salt lay on top of the stockpile, and I grabbed it as I grumbled to myself.</p><p>"<em> Unless something's keeping it topside </em> .” I slammed the trunk shut. “Gimme a break. Of course, some <em> thing </em> was keeping it here," I continued to myself as I stomped back to Sam and Dean. I prodded the latter in the shoulder and asked, "How? How the hell did you know?"</p><p>Dean shook his head as he held his lighter in one hand and withdrew a motel matchbook from his pocket. "I didn't. I didn't know the bridge would work. And I didn't know the whip had anything to do with it. I just had a—"</p><p>"Remember the last time <em> I </em>had a hunch and convinced you to drive the Impala over a hundred?" Sam interjected.</p><p>Before Dean could respond, I spoke. "Speaking of which…" I paused as I finished pouring a generous amount of salt on the neat pile of bones and snapped the can shut. "Don't ever drive that fast again."</p><p>Dean’s brow shot to his hairline as his jaw dropped. He gestured to the bridge, looked to it, then turned to the pile of bones and gesticulated wildly at them. After he stuttered the beginning of a few statements, he blurted, "What was I supposed to do?!"</p><p>"Not one-oh-five, that's for damn sure!" I stated. "We could have died!"</p><p>"We <em> would </em> have if I hadn't—"</p><p>"Alright, that's enough!" Sam interjected. "I'm sorry I brought it up. Let's just put this son of a bitch away for good this time."</p><p>"Yes, sir," Dean agreed. "One salt and burn, coming right up."</p><p>The book of matches took the flame of Dean's lighter with a sharp hiss. A flick of his wrist sent the little ball of fire cascading to the ground, and in a single beat of my heart, red consumed the world in a crimson concussion.</p><p>The ring in my ears faded, and the blinding light dimmed, darkness settling around us once more. Flat on my back, I stared up at the shimmering night sky, beyond dazed. When I sat up, Sam’s hollow voice called from afar. But the moment his touch soothed my shoulders, a shock of clarity rushed through me, and I saw he knelt over me.</p><p>“Talk to me, Y/N,” he repeated. “You okay?”</p><p>I thought for a moment, taking inventory once again. No broken bones, no blood. Not even a hint of pain despite the lingering soreness from the previous night. “I… I think so. What happened?”</p><p>Dean strode into view, an ornately gilded box cradled in his hands. He set it on the ground at his feet, and then I spotted it. The whip lay intact where it had rolled to a stop earlier. Salt scorched black cowered beneath the pale white bones as though frightened of its failure to purify the whip. I pointed at it and repeated myself. “What the <em> fuck </em> just happened?!”</p><p>Sam spoke when Dean hesitated. “It looks like the whip is protected. Somehow. Whether the Headless Horseman did it or it’s part of his curse, I’m not sure. And it’s irrelevant anyway. We’ll have to find some other way to destroy it.”</p><p>“But then… What happened last time? With your dad?” I asked as I stood. Sam hopped to my side once more, his gentle strength lifting me to my feet.</p><p>Metal rasped on metal, and my attention snapped to Dean. His hand rested atop the box, the metal gears working with fine clicks and clanks. When he removed his hand, the lid lifted half an inch and hissed a violent release of pressure. Of its own accord, the lid then continued to rise, revealing rich black velvet. Darker than night, the fabric lined the entire box, and it absorbed the moonlight, much like the void that had taken the Headless Horseman. When Dean withdrew a similar thick velvet cloth from the box, he spoke. “John <em> did </em> put the Headless Horseman away thirty years ago.” He paused as he grasped the whip with the velvet. Gingerly, he eased it into the box, then spread the cloth over it. The heavy lid shut with a hollow <em> thunk </em> and the metal gears worked once more, sealing shut on its own. “But, he came back.”</p><p>“Because of the whip?” I asked.</p><p>Dean nodded as hefted the box and turned for the Impala. Sam and I followed, eager to be on our way. Given our cargo, I doubted Dean would want to stay another night in Sleepy Hollow. Resolved, I figured I’d at least steal a pillow for the ride back.</p><p>We followed as Sam said, “We’ll take it back to the Bunker and find another way to destroy it.”</p><p>“Otherwise…” My question drifted, lingering like an unwanted guest that had overstayed their welcome.</p><p>With a grunt, Dean shoved the box into the trunk. “Otherwise, the next unlucky bastard that touches this thing will<em> become </em> the Headless Horseman.”</p><p>The terrifying implication settled in the pit of my stomach. An indestructible weapon possessing unwitting people. And yet, I knew that dichotomy well. Old as time, that one. The immovable object, an inanimate manifestation of immortality, meets the unstoppable force, the perpetual stupidity of human curiosity.</p><p>“We need to get on the road,” Dean stated as he shut the trunk, then strode for the driver’s door. There, he cried a soft, short sob and spoke to the car. “Oh, Baby, look at you. We’ll get you home and cleaned up.” Then he ripped the cannonball free, wrenched the door open, and slid into the driver’s seat. The awkward crunch of ill-fitting metal joints damn near broke my heart. And not just for Dean, but for the Impala as well, for she had seen us through a most harrowing night yet again.</p><p>Sam leaned in beside me then and asked, “Mind if I sit with you?”</p><p>“I’d… I’d like that. Very much,” I replied as a sudden chill crept beneath my skin. “I don’t think I could handle the whole ride back by myself.”</p><p>He opened the door and gestured ahead. “I make a pretty good pillow.”</p><p>As he slid in beside me, I said, “I look forward to finding out.” The warmth of his entire body, so close to mine, pulled me in, a moon to her earth. His long arm draped over my shoulder, and I curled into him. For a brief moment, the case ceased to exist. Only my exhaustion reminded me that I had gone toe to toe with the Headless Horseman and, for the most part, won.</p><p>But then a familiar thought occurred to me, and my weary eyes snapped wide open. “It’s true, then.”</p><p>“What is?” Dean asked as he turned over the backrest.</p><p>My breath caught in my throat, unwilling to put into the universe my worst nightmare. But between Dean’s confident stare and Sam’s soft gaze, I’d never felt safer. Even in my darkest moments, the Winchesters would be there for me. I put my faith and confidence not only in them but in myself as well. No matter what happened next, I believed in us.</p><p>“What’s true, Y/N,” Sam asked.</p><p>I gave him my best smile and spoke.</p><p>“Some urban legends never die.”</p><p>Dean shook his head as he turned back to the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The Impala rattled as she started, exhausted as each of us. When she settled to idle, Dean looked at me in the rearview mirror and spoke.</p><p>“No. They live just long enough to meet us.”</p>
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